No Exit
by Barbara Barnett
Summary: Complete, with room for a sequel House makes a fateful decision after his dark night of the soul.
1. Chapter 1

No Exit

Author: Barbara Barnett

Summary: House makes a decision in an hour of despair. House admits himself into rehab

Spoilers—through MLC (speculation for the future, but no spoilers)

Chapter 1

Christmas came and went and House sat on his sofa, still and sombre. The deal, the one he had fought so hard against taking. The deal, that in its final hours, had become a way out of the hell in which he found himself dwelling, had been revoked. Leaving House with no options.

He contemplated the past 72 hours: the pain, the humiliation of first Cuddy, then Cameron seeing him like that; stealing the Oxy and simply not caring anymore about anything. Just please let the pain stop. Let it not hurt anymore.

Summer had ended with something House had not felt in a very long time: hope. He flashed on the memory of burn he felt back then—was it only three months ago?--in his arms and legs, even his feet, as he pushed to finish that eighth mile. It had been so long since he had felt the lightness of flying through a park unaided by anything but the power of his two legs. One month, then two. He had silently thanked Moriarty (or whoever the hell he was) for shooting him and pushing him toward the radical Ketamine treatment. Had thanked him every day for the clarity he felt, his brain free of the opiates he sometimes struggled to fight through.

But then the vision changed. He was still running, but on a treadmill. The silence of the PPTH physio lab made the thump-thump of his running shoes echo through the dark. Wilson had challenged him. Wilson always thought he knew best, and usually House didn't mind, until recently. Wilson didn't want to believe that the ketamine was failing, when House knew that it was. The searing, ripping pain in House's right quad was not a sore muscle. He knew that pain—was intimately familiar with it—like a playground bully come back to taunt him, tell him he'll never be normal. Never again. Do not pass go; do not collect $200.00.

The ketamine had been his last chance. His only chance. And now, with no more to look forward to than years of pain and the fog of opiates…what was left for him? How long did he have, House had wondered then, before his liver was trashed beyond repair? Five years? Six? Less if he was less careful on his bike; less caring about the amount of his alcohol consumption.

House shivered, feeling like shit, unwilling or unable to arise from his roost to start up the fireplace. He realized that he was shivering despite not having removed his coat. His little jaunt with the Oxy had only slightly forestalled the Vicodin withdrawal symptoms. Cuddy had given him two vicodin when she had dropped him back at his apartment, telling him in her seductively sympathetic voice that she was sorry about the deal falling through, but that he had only himself to blame. "Then why give me the Vicodin?" He tried for defiant, with only minimal success.

"No one thinks that you don't need pain relief. But House, the way you've been…stealing Wilson's pad? A dead man's oxy?" House looked away, unable to find an adequate come back line. "You don't think you need help?"

"I'm…" No, he reckoned. He wasn't "fine." Not by a long shot.

"I'm thinking of doing it anyway, deal or not." Cuddy arched an eyebrow at the non-sequitor. For a moment she was unsure of what House meant. He wouldn't look at her, but his voice was grave. A fleeting moment's panic ensued, making her regret agreeing to simply drop him off and not come in. Stay with him.

"House, I think I should…you shouldn't be…" Realizing, House smiled weakly, knowing he'd evoked Cuddy's panic response.

"Rehab. I think maybe I…"

"Are you sure? Will you even take it seriously?"

"I don't know." It was as honest as he could be. "Why, it's what you and Wilson crave, isn't it?"

"Yeah, since when have you sought our approval? On anything."

"I'm not. Let's just leave it at that. Thanks, Cuddy. For the lift."

House tried picturing himself there, in the PPTH rehab facility. One of the lost souls: a vague, blank apparition of a human being with empty eyes floating aimlessly in the halls—and that would be after he detoxed. After a week of pure hell.

"Did you want to die?" Rebecca what's-her-name's words came suddenly back into his head.

"I'd hoped I was dying." He had answered her. It was true then. It had been true a year ago, when he had thought he'd lost his grip on reality in the aftermath of the placebo; and again in the spring, when the pain again spiraled out of control and morphine seemed like his only answer. And in September, with the return of the pain after Ketamine had given him hope for the first time in many years. And how many other times, when the pain was so bad he would do anything to be put out his misery. When oblivion was the only answer until he could regain some modicum of control over it. He'd hoped he was dying last night and cursed his gag reflex for saving his life. Death wasn't a suitable answer. Dignity was out. He spent the last of he meager resource when Wilson found him in his own vomit, barely aware of his surroundings.

So it was life. He'd tried everything else. Maybe rehab wouldn't be the nightmare he feared. It certainly couldn't be worse than the last 48 hours had been. Yeah, and who was he kidding.

"I'm checking myself into rehab." House didn't wait to catch the look of shock on the faces of the three fellows. He turned towards the elevators and disappeared from their view.

House had chosen the in-patient facility at PPTH because he didn't trust himself. He knew he could detox on his own. Had done it before. Twice. Three times if you counted this past week. Which he didn't. And the detoxing on Ketamine didn't really count either, since the drug did all the hard work while he was in a coma. No, House knew that in the midst of detox, he could "want to die." And the next time he probably wouldn't botch the job.

And, at least if his staff needed him, he could come in on a consult. The down side of being at PPTH was, well, that he was at PPTH. He was far from anonymous, at least amongst the staff.

"Dr. House?" House peered up from his handheld game. At least it was someone he didn't recognize. "If you wouldn't mind coming with me…"

House glanced longingly at the doorway, thinking that now would be a good time to leave and return to the safety of his office. "Just joking," he wanted to say. "Wanted to check out the nurses up here on four. Been there, done that, leaving now." The words wouldn't form. He rose in silence and followed the woman into her office.

"I'm Dr. Harrington. Catherine. There are a lot of forms to fill out. Dr. Cuddy did the pre-registration and sent up your medical files. But still…a lot of paperwork." She sounded vaguely apologetic, but he knew this game. A shell of self-deprecation might get him to lower his guard. To "talk." He had nothing to say. At least she wasn't smiling that inane way that psyche people tended to. Point to her.

"I know you're a doctor, and you understand a great deal about what's going to happen the next few days at least. I won't insult you by minimizing it. They will probably be some of the worst days of your life, but not as bad as yesterday…"

"Please no platitudes. I…"

"It's not. I know what your yesterday was like." She opened a file. House took it in, sighing. Cuddy was thorough. And quick.

"Does this mean I get a babysitter? Gonna take my privacy away too?"

"No babysitter. Dr. Cuddy also explained the circumstances. She doesn't think you're suicidal. I trust her assessment, provisionally, anyway. I'm going to be your therapist during your time here…and beyond, if it works out. As far as I'm concerned, you're here voluntarily, and my job is to give you all the help and support you need…"

"Platitudes…"

"…Including trying to find a pain management plan that works for you. I'm not going to lie to you and say you'll be off opiates…clean and sober, as the saying goes. It may be that you can't be off narcotics. Dr. Cuddy notes that you've tried other pain relief from the common to the experimental. Radical, even. Nothing else has given you relief. This isn't going to be easy. Physically or emotionally. As you know, the addiction is complicated by your valid and legitimate need for pain relief. We will find something that works. Now about those forms…"

Waivers, insurance forms and other paperwork took up the better part of the morning. With each form signed, House wanted less and less to be there. Locked up. Locked away. He knew what to expect: a week to detox. OD'ing on the oxy meant that he'd have to relive a lot of what he'd gone through three days earlier. But at least there'd be meds to relieve some of the withdrawal symptoms. The pain was another matter.

"We need to evaluate your pain, figure out what might work once you're detoxed. There are some new drugs on the market that might be more effective without the massive quantities of hydrocodone in your blood stream. We also need to do a liver panel. You had a lot of tests after your shooting and during your recovery from the Ketamine procedure, but with the Oxy OD, we need to make sure your liver is stable. Are you in pain now?" House had said barely two words to the doctor, choosing instead to observe her warily, figure out what made her tick. What lay beneath the calm and calming professional mask.

"I'm always in pain," he growled.

"Can you give me a pain-scale number, or do I need to guess?"

"Eight. It's been…"

"I know how long it's been. I know a lot more about you than you think I know. I know that a lot of the stuff we do here won't work for you. You're not a 'get in touch with my feelings' sort of guy. I get that. Meditation isn't your style. Neither is visualization. But I hear you're a terrific musician, so maybe we'll go there. You have a better defensive line than the Chicago Bears, I haven't met a defensive lineman yet I couldn't get around, so…"

"You know you should really need work on your metaphors."

"We'll put you on Subutex. It should help with both the pain and the withdrawal symptoms. It's not perfect, but you won't be cowering in a corner shivering, sweating and puking your brains out for the next four days, at any rate. But I need to get the liver studies going first. Later you'll meet an anesthesiologist who specializes in pain management. I promise that it's no one you know. I borrowed him from another hospital. I want to ensure your privacy and grant you as much dignity in this as possible, Dr. House." Catherine extended her hand and stood. The audience was over.

She'd given him no openings, no opportunities for backing out, for pissing her off. House stood with difficulty, stiff and sore. His leg felt on fire. He took the proffered hand, without looking her in the eye.

"Anlee will see you to your room so you can get settled. The lounge is down the hall. Pay phone on the wall right next to it. You'll have a hospital phone in your room. You know how to use that, I take it." She smiled. For a moment he wished he could return it, but there was nothing in him, no space, no cell within his body that felt able to. If misery was his steady state, as Wilson always assumed, this was surely a new level in Hell. He felt dead inside, and hoped he was dying.

End chapter 1


	2. Chapter 2

"We'll start you on 40 micrograms of Subutex and then wean you off that over the course of the next 10 days to two weeks. We need to assess how much of you pain level is exacerbated by the opiates. And I know that you know on some level that opiates can do just that. But we can't know till your body's been cleared of the stuff." House nodded slightly as he put the pills under his tongue. He tried to conceal the neediness with which he took them. "Just let them dissolve. The next couple of days, even with the Subutex are going to be…difficult, I won't lie to you."

"I've been through detox."

"The circumstances are different. You're in a hospital room. You have no distractions. You're probably a little scared…"

"Like I said…I've been…"

"I don't think you're scared of detoxing. You know what you've done to your body physiologically, and you know the physical consequences of removing the drug from your system. It's demystified for you. At least to an extent. I think you're scared of what's on the other side. This isn't a quick fix like the ketamine. It's going to take trial and error and patience. And you're not a very patient…patient. Someone will be by every couple of hours to check your BP and respirations. If the nausea gets bad, hit the panic button. Same thing if you're dizzy or feeling light headed. We want you to eat and drink even if you don't feel like it…and you won't. But do it anyway. Things shouldn't be as bad as cold turkey, but with amount of Oxy you took on top of the vicodin still in your system and a pint of whiskey…like I said: no promises."

House nodded, too sick and exhausted to respond. He was tired. Beyond tired. He'd slept about six hours in the last four days. He knew that real sleep could be a long way off; days off.

The hospital room slept two, but mercifully the other bed was empty. He was finally alone. He thought of it as a challenge. Cuddy, Wilson, Foreman: they couldn't be more wrong. He really didn't believe, he told himself, that he was an addict. Not in the way that Tritter defined the word. This was all bullshit. A show. But he couldn't banish the image of himself in the mirror that morning when he came to Wilson begging. Begging for something, anything to make the nausea go away. He'd willed himself to look in the mirror at a man he barely recognized: his eyes hollowed out black holes peering into a withered soul. His face was dripping with water as he had tried to wash away the pain and fear with trembling hands. Trying to make himself convincingly human enough to sign out Zebalusky's pills. "Do not take more than four per day," read the bottle's label. Thirty pills later over the course of 15 hours. With a Maker's Mark Chaser. One pint. At least. Brilliant. Maybe if it had been two…

Four days of a waking nightmare, and he was still pacing his room like a wounded tiger. He was hot, burning up in one moment, and in the next, freezing: shaking chills wracking his body, which, in turn sent intense and searing pain through his damaged leg. The bed was too short for him as he fought with his sheets and fought with the pain and he fought with a God who he did not believe in.

So he paced, coming to light occasionally in the big easy chair, struggling to sit comfortably and struggling equally to move from it. And then there was the nausea: unrelenting. Nothing seemed to help alleviate it. And every time he retched into the basin, shock waves seared through his right thigh. Until his entire essence seemed to have boiled down to the area between his right knee and hip. Agony was too kind a word.

He dreaded morning when he knew Harrington would rachtet down the Subutex. He knew that conventional wisdom said that Subutex was the most humane and kindest way to detox. Fuck conventional wisdom. At least Harrington had been honest. No pity from her. And she had protected him from hospital staff and their concerned inquiries. "Sorry, Dr. Cameron. No visitors; and Dr. House has requested that he take no phone calls at this time. He's doing fine." He'd heard her two nights before, just outside his room.

House had refrained from using the call button. He understood the body's mechanisms and could think them through: rationalize and intellectualize the entire experience. He made half-hearted attempts during his more lucid moments to distract himself. He tried to focus on Cuddy's ass; on Wilson's face. He tried counting backwards in Latin from 1,000; he called up random pages in every textbook he'd ever read. To no avail. But he knew that the nurses, Harrington, nor the devil himself could give him much of anything to make this all go away.

Catherine had stopped by several times daily to check on her patient those first four days. She experienced the many faces of Dr. Gregory House: sullen or depressed; anxious and manic, depending on where he was with the pain and the withdrawal. She didn't want him to "talk." Didn't expect him to. Not now. He was hurting and vulnerable, angry, frustrated and broken. There would be time to talk later. She simply wanted him to know she was there.

In Catherine's mind, Gregory House was a hero. They all were, to some degree. Her patients. The ones who emerged from their hearts of darkness bruised but intact. But Dr. Gregory House was another sort of hero. One she had admired and respected. He hadn't known her, sitting up on the fourth floor, behind the locked doors of the psych wing. But she knew of him, what he did; what people thought of him and why—and, she had a pretty good idea—who he really was behind all that bullshit.

To his patients, most of them anyway, she saw House as a patron saint of lost medical causes. People who had been through the medical ringer, seen doctor after doctor; dismissed by doctor after doctor, found an ally in Dr. House. Catherine had been curious about him since she had seen him that night a nearly two years earlier at the tail end of the meningitis crisis, standing vigil at a patient's window, unseen. Just watching. The chaos swirled around him, but he just stood there and watched through the semi-closed blinds. They could not see him and everyone else ignored him. One of his fellows had startled him from the moment, telling him that "she was going to be OK." She observed the biggest jerk at PPTH choke back the emotion when he responded "I know." Catherine hadn't known anything about the patient. She didn't need to. She learned that there was much more to House than met the eye.

In many ways, House was a lot like the patients he admitted onto his service. Dismissed by doctor after doctor. House's response had been to shut them all out. Not to trust anyone with his own medical care. It was foolish, but she understood where he was coming from. He had not been served well by colleagues, doctors or friends. Not for a long time. And House was a genius of a doctor. He did the math and took the risk of trusting only himself. And her job was to change that. If House was to get out of this alive, physically and emotionally, Catherine knew she had to change the equation.

She sighed, looking in through the one-way glass. House sat at an open window, staring gloomily at the falling snow. He was quiet, at least. Seemed somewhat at peace for the moment. He was shivering; a blanket wrapped tightly around his shoulders seemed to do no good. "Come in out of the cold, House," she wanted to yell at him. But he wouldn't be ready to listen. Yet.


	3. Chapter 3

No Exit

Chapter 3

The snow had stopped falling and the sun streamed brightly into House's room as a new day dawned. This was his fifth day. He knew the Vicodin was out of his system, but he continued to detox as the Subutex dosages had been decreased daily. House felt exhausted and sick. He felt like a junkie. He appreciated the fact that there were no mirrors in the room.

House's eyes were closed against the brightness in the room. One arm lay across his face, further blotting out the light; the other massaged his right thigh. "Good morning, Dr. House."

"The light…" Catherine was confused only momentarily. She moved to the window, tightly shuttering the blinds before pulling up a chair beside House's bed.

"How's the pain?" He dramatically swept away his arm, and opened his eyes long enough to glare daggers at her.

"You're a doctor. Do the math. No meds…what do you think…?" House stopped himself. He hadn't the energy for sarcasm. "I can't even…" Never mind going there either.

"You're going to meet Dr. Kwan this afternoon. He's the anesthesiologist I spoke of the other day. We also need to talk."

"I thought that's what we were doing?"

"Talk as in therapy session." She waited for the retort. "I want to show you around the facility."

"Look, I'm not exactly…"

"I know you're not feeling up to it. I know the pain is bad right now. I hope the withdrawal symptoms are at least improving. I'll leave you at the Subutex level you're on for now. No decrease."

"I can't…I can barely stand." He looked away. She knew it was an admission he hadn't wanted to make to her.

"I can do the math, as you said. I took away the Vicodin; put you on Subutex. It's not enough to help much with the pain. I know that. That's why I asked you about the pain when I came in. Can you give me a number?"

"Is '11' a valid response?"

"Yes. OK, so maybe a stroll through the department was a bad idea. We can still talk."

"Sure. Fine. Whatever."

"Think you can make it to that chair over there? I hate talking to patients who are lying down. Too cliché for me." She had pointed to the easy chair by the window. She wanted to get at least a primitive and objective assessment of his pain level. Catherine handed him his cane. "Sit for a minute before you get up. Don't want you to pass out on me. Your BP was a bit low on the last check."

House stood, steadying himself. His gait was halting, painful to watch. Catherine observed him carefully, resisting the urge to offer assistance. On the sixth step, just short of the easy chair, his leg gave out as the pain tore through his thigh. He crumpled to the floor, crying out in frustration and agony.

Catherine's instinctively moved towards him to help. His glare kept her at bay. She waited quietly as he caught his breath and struggled into the chair, raising himself shakily on his left leg, his right never making contact with the floor. His knuckles white on the cane handle, House noted that Harrington was observing him; his grip on the cane. He hurled it across the room. "Be sure to note that in my file. Patient was angry, throwing useful objects violently about the room." House's voice was raw; his breathing ragged.

Catherine tried to think of something to say that would not evoke a defensive response. She put her pen and pad on the floor, making a show of not writing anything. "I'm sorry I put you through that. I needed…"

"Yeah? To what? I told you… You didn't believe me. So now you know." They sat for awhile in silence. Observing each other. He glared, willing her away. She refused to bite.

"Don't you have other patients to harass, or do you just take on one patient at a time?"

"I don't get that luxury, Dr. House. Besides our hour isn't up yet." Catherine noted that House seemed more comfortable; his breathing more relaxed. "The withdrawal symptoms seem a little better today. How's the nausea?"

"It's better than it was. I still feel like…can't think of an appropriate metaphor…I think the word is 'crap'." Catherine shrugged.

"At least it's not worse than 'crap.'"

"It is. I'm just trying to be controlled in my speech."

"Ah." More silent observation from each side. Catherine glanced at her watch surreptitiously. "What happened Christmas Eve?" No time like the present.

"You're the shrink. You tell me. I'm sure you've talked to Wilson. And to Cuddy." Catherine nodded.

"I think you felt backed into a corner you didn't want to be in, making a choice that you thought was a lose-lose proposition. You were desperate, in pain, detoxing from Vicodin. You took too many of those pilfered Oxy tabs and then you took more. And topped it off a hell of a lot of Maker's Mark. You have no history that anyone knows of, of binging on either alcohol or the Vicodin, so it could lead one to believe…"

"It could that." She noted both bitterness and resignation in his tone.

"So you tell me what happened, doc." Silence. Catherine glanced again at her watch. The hour was nearly up, and she was pretty sure he wasn't ready to go into it. But she wanted the question on the table for later.

"You'll be going down to the pain clinic in a bit to get that assessment going. It's not doing anyone a favor for you to be in that much pain. I don't believe in torturing patients, despite what you might think right now. It's been, what, three months since you've done any rehab on your leg? I think Kwan's goal might be to get your pain adequately managed to a point that rehab is even possible. The Vicodin by itself wasn't doing that. And I think you know it. So… You OK in the chair, or do you want to get back to your bed?"

"Think I'll stay here." Catherine nodded. Wordlessly, she retrieved his cane from where it had landed and leaned it against his chair at his right hand.

"Oh, by the way, you've had a lot of phone calls…and a visitor or two. The nurses have been under orders to protect you from inquiring minds and bodies. Dr. Cuddy has asked to see you when you feel up to it and I OK it. You up to seeing her? If not…"

House blew out a breath. "Fine. Welcome to the freak show. Come one, come all."

"Only on your approval."

"Thank you." A quizzical look in response. "For my cane."

"De nada."


	4. Chapter 4

No Exit

Chapter 4

"Dr. House. I'm Jun Kwan. Honored to make your acquaintance in person. I've read one or two of your papers. Your clarity of thinking and honesty about our profession is refreshing." It was a way to break the ice. Kwan assumed House would take it as so much bullshit, but he had read several of House's papers on diagnostics and one on renal failure in pain patients. Right now, House didn't look the vision of medical brilliance Kwan admired. He looked like a patient in dire straits.

The battery of tests took hours. Kwan was curious about the Ketamine treatment and its effects; he told House things he already knew. "I'm trying to figure out what went wrong with the Ketamine after three months."

"Simple. It stopped working. Fifty percent of cases. Period." EMGs, MRI, PETScan, blood tests.

Kwan scanned the list of meds and procedures tried over the course of six years. "But even the Vicodin doesn't work completely for you. The pain is still too severe, even on the dosages you're on, to make physio possible." A question or a statement. House wasn't sure. He was just exhausted.

Kwan had mentioned something about a guy at Albert Einstein and hedonic tone studies. House had recalled reading about it in the Journal of Pain Management. "I think your Hedonic tone might be signficantly lowered. It's a guess right now. But if true, would complicate both your pain and pain management issues. But I think it may explain a lot. You probably know that you have CRPS, complicated by the muscle damage and the over-compensation by the remaining good muscle. The Ketamine short-circuited the CRPS for three months. Allowed you to exercise and do physio. If we can attack the both…"

"Been there. Done that."

"In any event, I need to evaluate all these tests in light of your history and Dr. Harrington's thoughts. We need to keep you on the Subutex for now, but titrate it down while we start you on a Tramadol/acetaminophen formulation short-term. Long term, I'm not sure your your liver will handle it. In any event 'eleven' isn't acceptable. You're in too much pain and I don't have any long term answers today."

House returned to his room. He felt sick and humiliated, having to be transported by wheelchair. The Ultram would kick in soon and then…

Cuddy was waiting for him when entered. She was standing, her hip perched on the window, arms folded. He looked away, embarrassed.

"Dr. Harrington said…" Cuddy tried to conceal her shock at his appearance. He'd looked bad Christmas morning, but nothing like this. His clothing hung loosely; she was certain he'd lost at least 10 pounds in the five days he'd been up on four. His beard had grown in more, making him look even more gaunt…and his eyes held more pain than she could stand.

"It's fine. I just wasn't expecting that you…" It was anything but fine, but it was inevitable: her visit.

"I can come back later if…" House glanced back at the orderly, who was waiting to assist House, shooing him from the room with a withering look. "Do you need…?" she stepped towards the wheelchair to offer. The pain seemed marginally better and House stood shakily, but on his own. His leg held as he dragged it slowly, finally sitting heavily in the easy chair.

"How are you doing?" It was a stupid thing to ask, she knew. The answer was obvious, even before she saw him; observed him.

"Peachy-keen. Lots of people at my beck and call, all hours of the day and night. All I have to do is flick a button and they come running. Just like Club Med." He paused. "Thank you. For the other day, Cuddy. So. How's life among the living? The team behaving? Foreman apply for my job yet? Wilson and Tritter elope?"

"House…"

"Yeah. Right. His motives were as pure as the snow outside this window. He's been fucking with my mind since September. And it's all been for my good."

"His intentions…"

"Yeah, well you know about intentions and Hell, don't'cha? Except I'm the one in Hell right now, while he's out on the golf course."

"It's December."

"Indoor golf course."

"Harrington's good." Time to change the subject. She didn't want to agitate him further. She'd leave that discussion to Catherine.

"Is she?"

"She knows what she's doing. She works with a lot of doctors who…"

"Are impaired? That what you think I am? Well I am now. That what you think I was? Impaired?"

"No. I…"

"Not able to do my job?" House laughed bitterly.

"I was out of my mind in pain. Detoxing. I hadn't slept in days and puking my brains out every hour. I still figured out that girl's problem. You couldn't and neither could he. And I'm impaired.

"I never said…"

"Then why am I here?"

"You're here voluntarily. I assume you came here because of what happened…"

"What happened was a direct result of what…"

"You tried to kill yourself." There. She'd said it.

"I did not try to kill myself." House rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Look. I do not want to talk about this now. I…" Even Harrington understood that. His emotional defenses were too worn down. He couldn't do it. And Cuddy always knew how to get past even his best defenses.

Cuddy moved to House's easy chair, sitting on the ottoman. House moved his feet to allow it. Even though her nearness was his biggest threat. "I'm sorry." He looked upward, exasperated. Sorry wasn't enough right now. He knew she meant it.

"I'm sorry for all of it. Not just this. It was wrong to lie to you about that patient. Hell, it was wrong of me to not allow you to try the cortisol in the first place. I was concerned…"

"That what? I was making intuitive leaps with no obvious medical evidence. How's that different than…" What was the use, he thought. How often had they been over this ground. "It's OK for me to connect the dots when I'm on narcotics; but when I'm not…not so much? That makes sense."

"House, I didn't come here to argue."

"Why are you here?" He had been feeling better, the combination of the Ultram and sparring with Cuddy helping. But now he was fading fast. He was feeling suddenly sleepy and wanted nothing more than to make it back to his bed. He rose from the chair, intending to do so with a flourish to signal the end of Cuddy's audience with him. Instead he nearly keeled over as a combination of the sleepiness and a slight dizziness swept over him. Cuddy caught his arm before he fell. He didn't resist her assistance.

"Tuck me in?"

"How long's it been since you've slept?"

"Don't remember. Will that affect whether you tuck me in or not?" Cuddy smiled at the remark. "'Cause if so, I think it's been a week. Maybe longer." She regarded him a moment as he nodded off before tucking the blanket around him and quietly exiting the room.

"How is he?"

"Asleep." Harrington looked surprised and pleased.

"He hasn't slept in days. Not really. Kwan put him on Ultram for the pain." Now it was Cuddy's turn to look surprised. "Stop gap. The pain was bad. I might have titrated down the Subutex too quickly."

"Has he talked about Christmas eve?" Harrington arched an eyebrow.

"Sorry. Instinct to ask. I know you can't say. Is he going to be alright?"

"He may never be pain free. He may still have to be on opoids or opiates for the rest of his life. As for the rest of it…" She shrugged. "It's early. He has a long road ahead and we haven't taken the first step yet. I have two months with him. Just getting him to trust me could take that long. So, who knows?"

"I'm glad he's working with you. Thank you, Catherine." Cuddy moved through the hospital corridors like a ghost. She neither saw nor heard anyone in the busy hallways. She slammed, then locked her inner office doors and wept.


	5. Chapter 5

No Exit

Chapter 5

A/N—Again thanks to Silja, Magdala and all my friends in the fandom for their encouragement and support.

House woke with a start. He was disoriented as his eyes adjusted to the darkness and his mind battled the fog surrounding it. His hand went mindlessly to his right thigh, rubbing the muscle there. The dim light reflected in his eyes, causing them momentarily to be the brightest object in the room. "You're awake."

"What time is it?"

"Ten p.m. You've been out about five hours. Probably more continuous sleep than you've had for a long time." Catherine had been sitting with him, glad that he was finally getting some sleep; hoping that it would improve things for him. "Can I turn on a light? Or do you want to go back to sleep?"

"Give me a minute." House rubbed his eyes vigorously, trying to focus through the fog. "Have to…" He looked around for his cane, which had been hooked to the right hand siderail. Catherine watched House struggle as he made his way to the bathroom. He flicked on the light and paused in the doorway, leaning heavily on the doorjamb before entering and closing the door. Catherine felt some concern that House had closed the door, he looked pretty shaky. He hadn't asked for assistance, and knew it wasn't wanted. So she held her breath, listened (feeling slightly like a voyeur) and breathed again when she heard the water in sink turned off and the door once again opened.

"I have your Ultram."

"That what's making me groggy?"

"Shouldn't be. You haven't slept in days. Give it a bit. Did it help with the leg?"

"A little." He seemed subdued. "I really need a shower."

"Take the Ultram, give it half an hour to kick in. You seem a little too wobbly right now for anything but a sponge bath. That the leg, you think?"

"I don't know. Probably." He made it back to the bed, collapsing into it.

Idiot, Catherine thought, berating herself. "Dr. House, have you eaten anything since morning?" He was probably a little dehydrated and his blood sugar level was probably way too low. She noted the dinner tray untouched, and it occurred to her that he'd probably not eaten anything for hours. That, plus the new meds and the continuous roller coaster he'd been on…

"No…I don't remember. I'm not really hungry…"

She gestured to the dinner tray perched on the bed table. "I need you to eat something. Probably tastes like shit right now, but I'll get you a fresh dinner tray and some orange juice." She pulled the top off the jello and handed it to him. "Eat."

"You sound like my mother."

He seemed a bit stronger as the moments passed and within an hour he didn't look he was about to keel over. "Can I take that shower now?"

"Do you want some assistance? I can call…"

"No."

"Fine. I'm going to sit by the bathroom door. If you're not out in…"

"Don't be such drama queen. I'll be fine."

House emerged from the bathroom in scrubs. He looked considerably better than when he'd gone in. Not great, but better. Catherine regarded him, noting the rugged handsomeness apparent even now. His eyes, so transparent that they had reflected light in the semi darkness earlier, now appeared darker.

Catherine had uncovered the dinner tray, placing the bed table near the easy chair. "I'm not really hungry."

"You still need to eat. I don't want you passing out on my watch. Sorry. Don't have to eat it all. I'd go for the minestrone and mashed potatoes. The chicken's not so good tonight. As long as the nausea seems to be better, I'd like to see you eat a little more than you have."

She noticed the scar on his neck. "Ever catch the guy who shot you?" House shrugged.

"You don't know, or you don't care."

"Both, probably." He didn't want to go there. "Thought you wanted to talk about Christmas eve."

"Do you?"

"No. But on the other hand, I really don't want to talk about anything at all."

"I know. When did the pain start getting out of control? I mean before. Before you tried the Ketamine." She wanted to keep the discussion focused on the physical for now. Symptoms, signs of his physical deterioration. Cuddy had noted giving him a placebo after he'd requested a spinal morphine injection. Her assessment had been that his pain was psychosomatic, caused by depression. That the placebo had worked, convinced her that she was right. That had been late last winter.

House sighed. "I started having breakthrough pain around February. It got progressively worse over the spring."

"What did you do about it?" House paused, wondering if he wanted to go down this path. He figured it was all in his chart anyway. Cuddy, Dr. Detail, herself would surely have noted the whole placebo thing.

"When it first started getting worse, I went to Cuddy, asking for an intrathecal injection of morphine. I was working on a difficult medical case, and the pain was interfering with my ability to do my job. She gave me an injection. Saline. A placebo. It worked. For a while, anyway."

"You know, of course that the placebo effect works against pain in at least 20 of cases. Even in cases of breakthrough pain. So what happened when you found out it was a placebo?"

"What do you want me to say? I began to doubt myself? I was convinced that it was all in my head? That the pain was a result of the fact I had ended an affair with the only woman I've ever loved and I felt bad about it? That's what Wilson thought. And Cuddy."

"And you?"

"The MRI was unchanged."

"That doesn't mean anything, and you know it. Breakthrough pain has nothing to do…"

"I know. I know…"

"How…" No, she thought. She wasn't going to ask him how he felt about his doctors' assessment. It was obvious he was still angry about it. Hurt by it. "Do you want to talk about Stacy at all?"

"No."

"OK. So the placebo worked for a little while. How long?"

"A few hours."

"The breakthrough pain continued. Or was it breakthrough pain? Did it jus keep getting worse? So that it was a constant? No longer just breaking through your meds, but…"

"It got worse."

"Did you have some sort of injectable for it?"

"Not prescribed." She arched an eyebrow.

"You self-prescribed?"

"This surprises you?" No, it hadn't. Just that he admitted it.

"No. But why not go to another doctor? A pain specialist."

"I knew what I needed. I…" He realized how that sounded. And he hadn't meant to go there. "It was morphine. I only used it when I knew I was going to be home. I never…"

"Did it help?" She hadn't wanted him put on the defensive.

"Yes."

"When was this?"

"Last spring in the weeks before I was shot." Back to the shooting. Great.

"Dr. House." Catherine stood. "Care to take a stroll? We have a Baldwin Grand in the great room. I 'd love you to see it."

"No thank you." House would have loved nothing more than to sit at a piano and lose himself for an hour or five. But not with her watching, observing how his hands still trembled, the notes coming clumsily and with effort.

She was satisfied that he was looking better; more engaged. She sighed, noting the bitterness that seemed to have crept back into his voice. Wondering where that was coming from. Maybe it was too much, too soon. His banter and reasonableness made her forget how fragile he really was. "Good night, Dr. House."

He was surprised that she hadn't pushed the issue. Tried cajoling him into seeing the piano. But then, she hadn't pushed anything. She was testing. He knew this game.


	6. Chapter 6

No Exit

Chapter 6

New Years Eve had never been a time of great celebration and merry making for House. Even during those first years with Stacy. The good years. Those. Probably the four best New Year Eve's of his life: Pizza, sex, champagne (Dom Perignon, and always a good vintage), the entire library of Marx Brothers movies, more sex, more champagne and then sleeping late into the next day. It was a routine and they had it down perfectly: an annual event.

Otherwise, New Years eve had never meant much of anything to House: another gig in a smoky bar—playing for other revelers—in those days; and later, after Stacy, not much of anything. But among New Years eves, this one probably rated in the bottom one or two. One, if you didn't count those that occurred under his parents' roof.

Cuddy had told him that Cameron and Chase were on duty and wanted to visit if he was up to it. Harrington thought he was ready; House did not. "You'll have to face them sometime, Dr. House." Catherine's advice had not taken into account Chase's bruised jaw or Cameron's having seen him like…like that.

"Not tonight." House was restless and bored. And in pain. He paced his room, considering the possibility of simply leaving. Going home. Who would stop him? He was there voluntarily—no deals. For all he knew it would be his last days of freedom for 10 years. Why should he spend them locked up? He thought of the hospital roof. It had been a place of both solace and pain over the years. Who was he kidding? He'd never make it up there. He'd either tire or his leg would give out by the sixth stair. More pacing.

He glanced at his watch: 11:35. Normally the halls were quiet by this time, but not tonight. New Year's Eve. Revelers toasting sobriety on sparkling cider; laughter—the unconvincing smoky laughter of too many cigarettes and the desire to be anywhere but here.

House's eye caught the handheld game on his bed. He'd beat every level of every game—twice in the last 12 hours. He flashed briefly on the kid's face. The one who had given him the game—Adam, he thought his name was. "That was a 10," Wilson had said. On the happiness scale. Had it been that? Was that what people sought within the messes of their lives? Moments? Seconds of unexpected joy, before returning to the normalcy of despair? They had thanked him. For what? What had he done? Nothing. Fixed a problem, nothing more. He had changed nothing for them; hadn't made their lives better: not Adam's—yeah, that was the kid's name—not his parents'. House shook off the thought of them, picking up the handheld, mindlessly fiddling with it before tossing it back on the bed.

If that had been a "10," then what was this he wondered? Which circle of Hell was this? The noise in the wafting from the hallway had died down and House again looked at his watch. It was after midnight. "Happy New Year Adam," he reflected.

House opened the door to his room. Except for brief outings to other medical departments, House had not left it in the five days since he'd checked in. He had been impressed, that Harrington hadn't pressured him to "join in" once the first, worst days of detox had passed. He knew that was coming, wanted or not. Ready or not. Leaving did not seem like such a crazy idea, after all. As bad as detox was, the thought of "group" anything made him cringe. He remembered "group" from the days and weeks just after the infarction. Well-meaning idiots with slogans for a vocabulary, who had no idea. NO idea of what it was like to… Trying to convince a bunch of new-bred cripples that life could be close to normal. And half were buying it. They could see themselves "visualize the pain" make it "go away." "Feel the healing." Well, he would never be healed. The pain would never "go away."

The halls were empty, darkened. He needed to be out of his room; anywhere else would do; he felt caged; oppressed by the small space; it's sterility, everything about it. He walked, quietly as he could, which was not very, wondering if he was even supposed to be out of here. Was there a "lights out" curfew. Hall monitors to check and make sure that all smoking materials were extinguished and all the little addicts were safely tucked in? He didn't really know. Not that it mattered to him. He only knew that he couldn't stay in his room a second longer.

The sight of the pay phone, hung as Harrington had told him, just outside the main lounge, made him think of his mother. They would be at a neighbors, probably playing bridge. She would be drinking rum and diet cokes. That was their New Years tradition. He thought briefly of calling, leaving a message. Saying… What would he say? What could he say? She would be worried. Probably called 15 times since that last call Christmas morning. After… He'd call in the morning. No sense leaving some ridiculously trite message, which would probably scare her half to death just as it had…"Just wanted to call and say 'I'm fine.'" Right. She'd hear the tremble in his voice and know he was lying. Like always.

"Dr. House!" He had nearly run straight into Catherine, who had just emerged from her office, briefcase in hand. They had startled each other. Catherine caught her breath. "Do you need something?"

"No. I… I couldn't sleep. I just…Can I…?" House felt like a kid caught smoking in the high school bathroom. It was stupid, he knew.

"You can be wherever makes you comfortable. Happy new year."

"Right." Recovering slightly, he regarded the psychiatrist with interest. "Partying late tonight?"

"I'm on-call," she said more defensively than she intended. "A lot of paperwork. You know the drill. End of the year…"

"Yeah."

"How are you feeling tonight? Your leg." She noticed that he had been leaning against the wall, rubbing vigorously at his thigh.

"I'm just great. Just out for a New Year's stroll. Love the accommodations here. Champagne's a little flat, but…"

"You don't get the good stuff until you're here a month. Strolling anywhere in particular?"

"Ever been on the roof of this place?" Catherine tried to conceal alarm at the question, wondering where this was going. She put down her bag.

"Have you?" She treaded a bit carefully. A toe in the water.

"When I first started working here, I used to go up there for a smoke. Before I gave up cigarettes. Great view. Quiet. Best place on this campus to watch the sun rise. Make out. Sex even. Talk." She was sure he was jerking her chain. Testing. Something.

"Are you asking me if you can go up there? No. I'm sorry. Look. I know you're restless right now…" She didn't need to be a shrink to see the anxiety pouring off him. It was a ridiculous request, if that was what he was asking… No. Maybe that's not what he wants. She'd almost missed the opening, trying to read between the lines of his conversation.

"I'm not an idiot. I know you can't let me go up there alone. Yeah. That would look great on your CV: Attempted experimental therapy technique New Years Eve 2007—allowed patient, who may or may not have suicidal tendencies, ascend the roof of the facility on his own. Trust-building technique was successful until the patient jumped. Look real good." Harrington smiled. OK, so where was this going?

House scrubbed his hand across his face. "Look…I'm feeling like a little like…I feel like shit. I just need a little air. I couldn't make it up those last six stairs to the roof on my own anyway. Not the way… The roof up on top of the Witherspoon wing has always been a bit of a…You could come with me. I'm not going to jump. I'm not going to kill myself."

Catherine sighed. She actually thought it was a good idea. Maybe up there, a place he clearly cherishes as a sanctuary, maybe he would be willing to begin. It was a thought. On the other hand, he was very, very fragile right now. What if she was wrong and he really was suicidal, actively suicidal. Could she prevent a man nearly a foot taller than she was from throwing himself from the roof?

"Not tonight. I like the idea; and I'd love to see this place. Always looking for a good place to think." He gave her a look. He'd taken the remark as patronizing. "Really."

Catherine sucked in a breath. "I think you're ready for group." Oh, here it comes, he thought, glaring at her in anticipation. "I'd like you to go for a couple of sessions. You don't have to talk. Don't have to say anything. Not even your name. Just sit and observe if you want. Take mental notes on every patient. I don't really care. Then, I promise you we'll take a field trip up there."

Catherine had known that getting him to even consider attending group therapy was going to be one of her great challenges with him. She'd known his history post-infarction and of the incident the year before with another pain patient. He would know all the angles and was a master manipulator. She'd only seen a little of that so far, but he had been sick and exhausted. She didn't envy the facilitator.

"This a negotiation?"

"Call it what you like." He began to walk away.

"One session." She smiled, knowing he couldn't see it.

"We'll see. Dr House!" Her voice made him turn back towards her. She noted the difficulty with which he was moving, wondering why he hadn't complained or asked for another Ultram. "I can't let you up on the roof, but if you're still restless, I'll let you play my piano."

House considered for a moment, not really wanting to give her anything more. He was still shaky, but he knew the music might distract him enough…"Would you have to stay?"

"No. I'll just unlock it and leave. Go back to my office and do some work."

"Thought you were leaving for the night."

"Still on call; might as well be here."

"Right. Fine. Show me this magnificent instrument." His voice was noncommittal, but Harrington noted the anticipation hidden around the edges of his tone.

"It was donated by a very famous, anonymous patient. A concert pianist." She was right. It was a gorgeous piano. Incongruous here among the wraiths of PPTH rehab. It didn't belong there, any more than he did.


	7. Chapter 7

House loved playing his baby grand piano. It was very old, and its tone was rich and mellow. He had to confess, however, that Catherine's piano was exquisite. The black, highly glossed ebony; real ivory keys. He was impressed. He looked over his shoulder at Catherine as he lowered himself painfully to the bench.

"OK, I'm going." At this point, House really didn't care if she stayed or not. He shrugged. "Don't play too loud, you'll wake the inmates." She smiled inwardly, hoping he'd be able to lose himself a little. Gain some solace. Catherine went back to her nearby office, leaving the door open.

House examined his hands. They still didn't appear very steady to him. But, who the hell was he playing for, anyway? He closed his eyes, trying to relax a little, not think about the pain now radiating through his thigh. A tentative note or two on the upper keys, quietly played, remembering Harrington's request that he not disturb the other patients. The keys were responsive; the tone rich. A short blues riff followed, almost reflexively. Lighter than he thought possible, given the slight tremor in his fingers. The music slowly, almost seductively drew him in, enveloping him in a multitude of sensations. His fatigue, the restlessness, even, to a lesser degree, the pain, bled away as the Bill Evans melody surrounded him. After a long series of improvisations, he finished. It felt better than he cared to admit.

"Blue in Green?" House looked up to see Harrington leaning against the far end of the piano. House nodded, slightly startled, wondering how long he'd been finished and simply sitting there. And, how long she'd been standing there. "Bill Evans was a genius."

"You recognized it?" It had been a sloppy rendering, at best, of the Evans masterpiece. It was meant to be played with the lightest of touch: a moody, melancholy piece. He was tired. Shockwaves coursing through his leg distracted him from the piece's lyricism. Yet, he was impressed that she'd recognized it. Good taste. At least she hadn't patronized him by telling him what a nice job he'd done with it.

"I'm sorry. Look, I know you wanted your privacy. But I it's one of my favorites. I'd heard you were good, but I didn't know you did jazz. And I wouldn't mind hearing that piece again some time. When it's not three a.m. and you're less exhausted. So, what do you think of my piano?"

"Anyone else ever play it? It looks new."

"I play it sometimes, not like that… but I can't resist. And, we do get musicians strolling through drug rehab every now and then. I know that comes a shock, but…" House peered down at the keys, suppressing a smile. "Dr. House, I have a couple of questions about the ketamine treatment. Mind if I walk you back to your room…? if you're finished playing for now. If you want to play more, feel free to…"

"No. I think that's enough for one night." Catherine watched as House cautiously rose from the bench, testing the leg before setting it down gingerly. If anything, he seemed more in pain now than when he had first sat down.

"How's the pain? Can you give me a number?"

"Seven, maybe. Eight."

"That typical for this time of night? I mean before…on the Vicodin." House nodded.

"Maybe worse now." His right leg buckled slightly as he took another step. "Definitely worse now."

"Need another Ultram?" House nodded. "Look, Dr. House, we don't really want you to be in pain. Despite what you think, we do not…I do not believe there is anything 'good' about pain. This isn't about being stoic and sucking it up. It's about dealing reasonably and effectively with what you're going through. You have a pain problem. I know that. Everybody on the team knows that. We need to deal with that as well as any other issues." She stopped. She was getting too wound up, angry with him and it was stupid. She wanted him to trust her; wanted to get on with it; wanted him better. Catherine sighed. "If you're in pain, let someone know. Me, a nurse. Someone. Don't be an idiot. Certainly don't be a martyr. It doesn't suit you." She hoped her little tirade hadn't pushed him further away. But she needed him to know that they weren't necessarily on opposing sides.

She got him another pill and walked back with him to his room. She noted the effect of simply taking the pill. He seemed immediately more comfortable, and long before it would have kicked in.

House sighed deeply as he settled into the easy chair. "You said you had a question about the Ketamine." Good, she thought, he hadn't forgotten.

"I've been doing some reading about it—your own notes on the German studies and case notes from your file." He steeled himself. "It's pretty remarkable stuff. Has huge potential for patients with Complex Regional Pain Syndrome like you."

"Yeah. Works really well." He hoisted his cane dramatically to put a point on the statement. Catherine tried steering away from the iceberg floes in her path.

"I know the effect can wear off with little or no warning. Any sort of mild trauma to the area can trigger it, but if they can work out…"

"Be great." Noncommittal agreement.

"I heard you'd gotten up to running eight miles a stretch…"

"Yeah. Good for me. You said you had a question. So far, I've only heard platitudes."

"What made you want to try it? The risks were pretty significant."

"Yeah, well, I've never been known as particularly risk-averse." Her look said she wasn't quite ready to let it go with that.

"You wield that cane like it's some sort of crusader's sword. Some of your colleagues, believe that you wear your pain like it's some sort of badge of honor. Makes you different. Special." Substitute "James Wilson, MD" for "some colleagues" and she'd be closer to the truth.

"Wilson. You had no right…"

"I never spoke to him about you. Not about this. I wouldn't do that. But he's your prescribing physician. I just picked up a vibe's all."

"Right." Wilson hadn't approved of trying the ketamine treatment. Thought it was just so much wishful thinking. He had told House that he was beginning to sound like patients of his who wanted to try any new experimental cancer trial that hit the popular press. It was a desperate measure, Wilson had argued. And since when had House become desperate for a cure? When had House started believing in false hope? Well, Wilson had been right in the end. It had been stupid.

"So why did you do it? The ketamine?" Back to the original question.

"What makes you think Wilson was right? About me and pain"

"Is he?"

"No. He's not. Wilson thinks that…" House paused, feeling trapped, but also drawn almost against his will into the question. He didn't want to talk about Wilson.

"I had been looking into it since last spring. Researching it. Almost all of the monographs and reports are in German, so I had to do a lot of translation. Cuddy knew about it; knew I had been considering it. When the pain began to get so much worse…so much more out of control..." He hesitated a moment. Stay with the facts. Stuff that's charted. "I told you I'd started using morphine to control the breakthrough pain when I knew I didn't need to be at work. I had no other options for when morphine was not an option. I couldn't really take much more Vicodin than I already was, and even trying that was pretty useless because it didn't really help. The ketamine treatment seemed to be a worthwhile risk. I had planned on doing it anyway, and when I was shot…It just seemed…" House was far away, suddenly. Harrington saw it in his eyes.

"You take the one good thing in your life and make it meaningless…" The words echoed somberly in House's memory, not sure who had said them and to whom. His father to him? No, that wasn't right. The shooter's image hovered just beneath his consciousness. The hallucination still too fresh; too raw, even seven months later.

"I want meaning." House's voice was a ragged whisper. Harrington wasn't even sure he was addressing her.

"Dr. House?" His eyes said he was back. "You OK?"

House nodded uncertainly, shaking off the memory. "Should I go?"

"I…um…" he looked away, having lost his train of thought. The Ketamine. Right. "But, as you can see, the treatment failed."

"I've read that you can have booster treatments. Not as intense as the original, nor as risky. Dr. Cuddy and your anesthesiologist both suggested it after the treatment stopped working. It had been successful. I could be again."

"I couldn't…Do you have any idea…? A month of intense in-patient rehab and two out-patient. Can you possibly have any idea what it felt like that first time I felt the pain come back?"

"No. But that was a rhetorical question, wasn't it?"

"I was skateboarding." She suppressed a smile imagining the lanky and very, very tall middle aged doctor on a skateboard. She would have paid money to have seen it for real. "Not like really skateboarding. Goofing around. I hadn't boarded since I'd been a kid. There's a freedom…its… Then it hit. Out of nowhere. It wasn't a muscle cramp; it wasn't a pulled muscle. It was lightning bolts tearing through my right thigh. One after the next."

"How did you react?" How had he reacted? It had freaked him out. He'd left Wilson sitting there wondering where he'd gone off to while House hobbled back the nearest mens' room to wait it out. He'd half expected it; dreaded it nearly every hour of every day for weeks. And now when he hadn't been looking for it…

"The pain only lasted about half an hour." He laughed ruefully. "Wilson was sure it was 'just muscle soreness.'"

"So he dismissed it."

"You might say that."

"How did that make you feel." House felt the trap spring on him. She was good, House had to give her that.

"How do you think?" he snapped. "You're the shrink. How the hell do you think it made me feel? I was overjoyed. Wilson thinks it's my aging body. Take some Motrin and call me in the morning."

"Had you asked him to give you anything for pain beyond Motrin?"

"I asked him for Vicodin."

"Why?"

"Why do you think. The pain was coming back. Had come back He laughed it off as nothing." House's calm had eroded into an angry bitterness.

"Did you tell anyone else, like Dr. Cuddy? Or your PT?"

"No."

"Why not?" House glared at her, angry for this. For drawing him out. Manipulating him into it.

"How did you deal with the pain? Medically, I mean."

"I was able to find some Vicodin."

"Did it help?"

"Yes." He was calmer again. Catherine glanced at her watch. It was five a.m.

"I'm off duty."

"I'm glad for you."

"I'm sorry."

"Right."

"I know how hard it is…"

"You have no idea how hard any of this is!" He managed to sound indignant and wounded.

"Get some rest." Catherine felt drained, exhausted.

"Yeah. Right." And she was gone.


	8. Chapter 8

No Exit

Chapter 8

New Year's Day is for playing touch football (if the weather is nice) and watching college football on television. House had always preferred the former to the latter; until circumstance made only the latter possible. This year, his alma mater was in the Rose Bowl. Any other year, he would have cared; would have put money (a lot of money) on the outcome; would have been eating pizza and downing Sam Adams with Wilson. Not this year.

He could hear the shouts and catcalls coming from the TV lounge as voices far, far away. House stared at the ceiling, mindlessly counting the holes in the acoustic tile. He was up to 7,405 before a particularly loud yell distracted him and made him lose count. About to begin again, this for the third time, he heard a soft knock on the door.

He reckoned that it couldn't yet be time for another group therapy session (oh, please, not that). It had only been a few hours. He was supposed to attend two each day, and, at this point, wasn't sure he would survive the first day without breaking the facilitator's neck. Or his own. He really didn't care which.

House was more convinced than ever that he did not belong here: in rehab. They'd placed him in a group with other chronic pain patients who had developed an "unhealthy relationship with their meds." He noted that three of the men in the group had probably not been properly diagnosed and still had underlying physical issues that had never been addressed. One was dying of cancer: and what the Hell made him want to spend time in this place when he had only months to live? Give the man his drugs and let him die in peace, for Chrissakes, he had thought as he droned on about wanting to be "clean" before going "home." Marijuana. And lots of it, that what House would prescribe for that one. Wilson would too, he thought. Better not be one of Wilson's patients.

But House had been good, as he had promised Harrington. He'd kept his mouth shut and simply observed. It had even been an amusing parlor game for about 15 minutes. Until the facilitator asked House if he wanted to introduce himself. Great. This hadn't been part of the bargain. "Not at this time," had been his curt reply.

"You don't have to give your last name. Just a first."

"No. Really. Thanks just the same," he hadresponded politely, if edgily.

He just wasn't ready to do this again. Even if it meant getting outside for a few minutes.

"House?" Cuddy. "You up to a visitor? Dr. Harrington said it was…"

"As long as you didn't bring the kiddies," House sighed, trying to not sound as sullen as he felt.

"I brought you a couple of presents."

"Oh goody. Bring me a file in a cake?"

"This isn't a jail."

"Effect is the same."

"You're not locked up. Not yet." She tried to sound light, forgetting for the moment truth to her quip. "Sorry." He observed her intently for several minutes as she set the bag down on his bedside table. He sat up on the edge of the bed, grimacing at the pain.

"You even allowed to do that? Bring me stuff? They might think it's cocaine; a little grass…"

"Being the Dean of Medicine has its privileges." She handed him the bag. House withdrew his enormous red and white tennis ball.

"Thank you," he choked out, not knowing why her bringing a ball had made him so suddenly emotional. He rose from his perch on the bed, walking with some difficulty, finally resting his head against the far wall, away from her sight.

She had also brought the small pink stress ball. "Figured you could use it now."

"Who me? I'm the epitome of laid-backness. I'm… You lost the baby." His tone was quiet, gentle. He had finally figured out what was different about her. She had only been five or six weeks along, but he had known; had guessed—and now…

"I'm not pregnant."

"But you were." Now it was her turn to hide from him.

"House…"

"I'm sorry."

"I would have made a lousy mom."

"I lied."

"I thought you never lie," she snarked. She gave him points for trying.

"I'm sorry about that, too."

"That part of the rehab program: apologize to everyone for everything? You were honest."

"I was in pain. I was…"

"I know you were hurting. I know you still are." House sighed. He couldn't look at her, not in her eyes. Not the way he was feeling right now. She had a way of cutting through his defenses, and right now his defenses were in serious need of reinforcement. If he let her into his eyes, he was sure he would fall apart.

"Do you want to see any of your team? Wilson? Harrington thinks it would be OK; a good idea, even."

"No. I…I'm not really…I don't want…"

"Wilson really wants to see you. You freaked him out Christmas Eve. You scared the Hell out of all of us. But Wilson…"

"Yeah. He left me laying half conscious on my living room floor."

"He was scared."

"He was pissed-off. And why? I wasn't the one who betrayed him? Sent him to jail…"

"No, but you stole his patient's pills and then tried to off yourself with them. Any symbolism there?"

"I really don't think I can handle Wilson's pyschobabble right now. I get plenty of that around here without his piled on."

"Fine. If you're not ready…"

"I'm not." Cuddy sighed. She knew she was being impatient with him, but she bled for him inside; wanted him healed. Needed him back.

"How's the leg?"

"Just dandy. Ready to join the PPTH Rehab bowling team. Ordered the shirt and everything."

"Have they figured out a new treatment plan for you?"

"Not yet." He blew out a breath, feeling that he'd just run through a minefield. "With the holidays…the tests… They put me on Ultram for now, but they're still futzing with the dosage. I keep telling them, I'd be fine with Vicodin, but they just won't listen…."

Cuddy smiled. "You look tired, I'll let you get some rest." She stood in front of him. He looked miserable and just sad. It took every ounce of will power to not offer him a hug. But he would take it wrong, seeing it as pity; hating her for it. She reached out and touched his hand, hoping that he would allow at least that. Feeling no resistance, she gripped his hand in hers, stroking it with her thumb. She saw that he had closed his eyes.

"I miscarried at six weeks. Two weeks ago." It had been just before he had said those words to her. He had meant them then. He regretted them now. House nodded.

"You can try it again."

"Now who's spouting platitudes? No. I don't think it's really meant to be. Who am I kidding?"

"You'd probably be a great mom. Look how great you yell at me? You'd be the envy of all the other moms." Cuddy smiled at his quip and let go of his hand.

"Yeah. Right," she guffawed. And left it at that.

An attendant brushed past Cuddy as she was leaving. "Time for Group, Dr. House." He sighed dramatically. Was this never going to end?


	9. Chapter 9

No Exit

Chapter 9

"How's the pain this morning, Dr. House? Can you give me a pain-scale number?" House scanned her face and then away, not responding. He was clearly upset, angry. About something.

"You look rested," he snorted derisively.

"Amazing what a day off will do." Catherine tried to keep it light; take the comment at face value. But she knew that it wasn't what he was really asking her.

"Great. Well, I did my two group therapy sessions. All better now. Ready to go home. I am healed. Wonder why I had never thought of doing this before."

"'Did' is a bit too strong a word. 'Quietly sulked' was the description used by the facilitator."

"You told me I didn't have to say anything. Just observe. I did that. I observed that it's a total waste of time. Roof."

"I didn't forget. We can do that later. Even now, if you want. So, back to my original question." Catherine wondered if he was so upset because she hadn't been there yesterday. Had he wanted to talk? He had her phone number. He knew that he could call any time of the day. Even if she wasn't at the hospital. Her momentary concern about lost opportunities vanished as she assured herself that House would not have been itching to "talk" after his group therapy session.

"It's bad enough."

"Care to give that a number?"

"Eight. Your miracle drug isn't working, Dr. Harrington."

"We need to…"

"I want to leave."

"OK…You want to leave. I'm not surprised that…"

"No. You don't understand. I'm done. I've heard enough platitudes about higher powers, and powerlessness to make me depressed for a lifetime."

"Did you actually listen? Joe told me you weren't actually paying much attention."

"Want me to quote the entire hour's dialogue?" He probably could, he thought, with only mild improvisation.

"I can't force you to attend group therapy. You're here voluntarily. You don't seem especially open to the idea anyway, so…"

"That's it?"

"Will it stop you from checking yourself out AMA? Anyway, if you do that, your pain won't be treated either and…"

"I know how to treat my pain. I'm a doctor."

"And a great one, as I understand it." They seemed to be going round in circles. Catherine sighed in frustration. "Vicodin wasn't working for you. You've already admitted that."

"That was before…that was last spring. I was fine until my so-called friends decided to try some 'tough love'."

"They were concerned. I think their concerns might have been justified, given…" Despite the bitterness, House seemed less agitated than he had when Catherine first came in. Another tack. "We have a meeting with Kwan later. He wants to propose a treatment plan for your pain.

"Neurontin. The wonder drug of the 21st century. Tried it. Didn't work very well."

"Did he tell you that? Or do you just know. I thought your certifications were in nephrology and ID. When did you add Anesthesiology to your shingle?" For whatever reason, her retort seemed to disarm him. "You were pretty upset when I came in before. Why?" House shrugged. He mindlessly picked up the pink stress ball, massaging in his right hand for a minute before letting it drop to the floor. He wasn't sure himself. Not really.

"I don't belong in here."

"You checked yourself in. This was your idea. And I think it was the right move. But we've been through this. Why did you decide to do this?"

"I love ping pong." She wasn't biting. "Impulse. My lawyer told me it was a good idea…"

"But he probably told you that weeks ago. Why now? Something must've happened…" Catherine didn't want to push too hard, but she felt they were on the brink of something.

"Christmas Eve happened." He'd said it so quietly that she'd almost missed it. "Christmas fucking Eve." His voice was ragged. He turned his eyes to the ceiling before moving to the window. He stared out at the snow.

"What happened?" She ventured. "Just tell me chronologically. Everything that happened." Her voice was nearly as quiet as his.

"It doesn't matter."

"To you?"

"To anyone."

"That's not being fair to Cuddy. Or Wilson. Or your team, for that matter. Something told you that it couldn't go on like it had been."

"Wilson found me half dead on my living room floor. I'd taken the whole damn bottle. All of it."

"Why?"

"Thirty. Oxy with a whiskey chaser. Not just a chaser but half a bottle." She almost had the sense that he was remembering it for the first time. He wasn't really talking to her. More to himself. "I kept thinking that it wasn't right. So many pills. It was too many. I knew that, but I couldn't…"

"You had been detoxing from the Vicodin for how many days at that point?"

"Two." He had almost forgotten she was standing there. He jumped slightly at the interruption.

"So the narcotics were almost out of your system, then you added 30 oxycodone right back in. Were you aware of what you were doing?"

He laughed ruefully. "You might say that. But only to a degree."

"You were aware of the danger." A statement.

"Yes." His voice was unsteady.

"And yet…"

"The obvious question, which you won't ask me, is 'was there intent'? Did I mean to pull the trigger with a loaded gun pointed to my head? Or was I simply out of control? Or in so much pain that I took all those pills to simply not feel? Anything."

"Dr. Cuddy told me that you had phoned your mother."

"I'm a good son. It was Christmas Eve. Isn't that what I was supposed to do? Call home? Reach out and touch someone?" His defensive line was reforming. This was all he was going to disclose for now. His back was still to her, still staring out the window. "I called…I called to hear her voice. I needed to hear her voice. I just did. I… I couldn't bring myself to say 'goodbye.'"

"Did you want to?"

"At that moment…..? Yes. I just wanted it to be over." Another laugh, this time derisive. "God, I sound like a drama queen."

"You sound like someone who was at the end of their emotional rope. Complete emotional meltdown."

"You might say that."

"Was that the first time?"

"That I was…? No. No, it wasn't." It was a difficult admission. House heaved a heavy sigh. Catherine realized that he wouldn't want her looking at his face; his eyes, right at that moment. She knew the session was over, anyway.

"Dr. House. I'll be right back. We'll go see Kwan." She threw a box of tissues on the chair near the window and left the room.

House turned back to the room as Catherine exited, pointedly ignoring the tissue box. He hadn't wept; hadn't shed one tear. At least there was that infinitesimal slice of his dignity intact.

Catherine returned a couple of moments later. "Do you think you can manage being out on the rooftop in the snow? They're predicting 10 inches."

"It's never 10 inches when they predict 10 inches. Won't be more than 2 at the most." He seemed in better spirits than when she'd left. At least he was covering better.

"Ready to see Kwan?"

"Anything to get me off this useless pill. Ultram. The only thing 'ultra' about is how 'ultra'-ineffective it is."

"I want to start you on a protocol of gabapentin…" House shot Catherine a look. Told ya. "…well start tomorrow at 300 mg and build gradually over the next few days while you're weaned off the Ultram beginning today.. By day four you'll be on be on 3 dosages of 400 mg. House looked at him defeated. "I've tried neurontin. It doesn't work."

"If it's not enough we can supplement with other meds after we get the dosage as close as we can to maximize the pain relief.. It's a little trial an error, given your circumstances…" he said somewhat defensively.

"But while you're figuring that out, I'm the one who's…forget it. Look. I've tried all this stuff. I'm surprised you didn't start with Ketaprofen."

"It could work. It has some effectiveness as an anti-inflammatory in CRPS, but I think this is a better alternative for you. You may still need to be on some type of opoid therapy, but we need to see where the gabapentin will take us. Dr. Harrington can work with you on some alternatives for non-chemical pain relief while we're adjusting your meds. I take it you know the side effects possible on the drug. But if you want me to go through them…"

"Dizziness. Looking forward to that one. The one thing I really need is more unsteadiness on my feet. Oh yeah, and tremors. I was beginning to miss those. Haven't had those in 12 hours or so. And those are only two of the great side benefits to Neurontin therapy."

House made a show of striding away from Catherine as soon as they left Kwan's office. He had momentarily forgotten the pain, supplanted by righteous indignation. She would have to remember that.

"So you want to visit that rooftop?" she called as he reached the elevator.

"Yeah. Better do it now before the waves of dizziness overcome me. It would be dangerous up there. Might fall off. Topple to my death. Look bad to the board and all that."

"Let's go then. Before we start you on the gabapentin."


	10. Chapter 10

No Exit

Chapter 10

"Why the rooftop?" It was a logical question, Catherine thought. It had been a struggle to get up there from the moment they left the unit. House hadn't wanted to see, or be seen, by anyone he knew well. So they had taken the scenic route: down to the basement to a back cargo elevator and up to the eighth floor. House was pretty exhausted by the time they'd reached the short stairwell to the roof, and Catherine wondered how he would manage the 7 step climb.

House's gait had gotten less and less steady as he leaned progressively more heavily on his cane. She briefly cursed herself for not suggesting they use a wheel chair. But she was fairly certain that House would have, not so politely, refused.

"I haven't been outside for over a week. I want to feel the fresh air tickle my cheeks and frost my nose. And, you know, the snowflakes, I just love when they accumulate on my eyelashes. It just feels oh so good." As if he would give her a direct and straight reply. They had otherwise made the trip thus far in silence. Standing at the base of the staircase, House hesitated.

"Do you need some help?"

"Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. I don't…" He stared up at the stairs, almost longingly, it seemed to Catherine. It was clear that he wouldn't make it up there under his own steam and he knew it; he was unlikely to accept her help. She waited, hanging back at the bottom of the flight as he tested the first step. She knew this would be both difficult and painful—and humiliating, knowing House, so she allowed him a bit of privacy in his efforts.

He'd gotten three steps when he collapsed onto the stair, using the railing to break his fall. He sat on the fourth step, gripping his leg and breathing hard with exertion. "Damn it. I can't even…" He slammed the cane into the stairs in frustration. He looked up remembering that Catherine was there. "Welcome to my world," he spat out, glaring at her before looking away. "Do you like what you see?"

"I think you spend a lot of energy trying very hard to NOT let anyone 'see.'"

"What would be the point?" His breathing was less labored, but he was clearly still in agony.

"Understanding."

"Pity. That's almost worse than…this." He let go of the railing long enough to gesture to his leg, before gripping it again.

"People do want to help."

"I don't need any help. Look what 'help' has accomplished. Well meaning idiots creating more problems than they solve."

"Is Wilson an idiot? Cuddy?"

"About this? Yes."

"But they're working with bad information, aren't they? You don't let them understand. You don't let them 'see'."

"They see enough."

"They see you're in pain, but they can't tell the difference between the leg and what you carry around inside. They can't do a proper differential."

"Spare me…I'm not asking them to diagnose me. I know the diagnosis. The diagnosis was made years ago. As far as I know, it hasn't changed. I don't need their help. Other people's 'help' cost me half a leg and half a lifetime." He stopped, realizing how agitated he must sound to her.

"The Ketamine was a way out. A way to get my life back." He was suddenly calm. He sounded almost wistful, defeated.

"Stacy."

"She was gone. I sent her back to her husband."

"But she still loved you."

"Maybe. But it wasn't about Stacy. Not entirely."

"So maybe…"

"No. I knew that it was over. Finally." House paused, carefully considering before he continued. "When the pain…when the Ketamine stopped…" House's voice wavered; his words were halting. He paused again, this time for nearly a minute. Catherine said nothing, sitting on the bottom step quietly. Waiting for him. She knew how terribly, terribly difficult this was for him. House began again.

"When the treatment began to fail…" House's tone sounded different, as if he were talking about a patient and not himself: dispassionate. "…I went to Wilson. He dismissed the pain as the result of overexertion. Except it wasn't. I'd been in physio for three months—two of those intense and demanding physical rehab. Running, lifting, more running. I was up to eight miles a day. For Wilson to dismiss it as 'getting old' was a bad diagnosis. He accused me…He suggested that I wouldn't know what muscle overexertion would feel like because I'd medicated myself to the gills on Vicodin for years and I wouldn't know a muscle cramp if…"

"Did he really say that?'

"Not in so many words, but…yes." House sounded annoyed at the challenge.

"Was he wrong?"

"Clearly he was wrong. As far as muscle soreness, he had no idea what the first three weeks of physio were like. Believe me, I knew muscle soreness."

"So what did you do?" House looked at her warily.

"I panicked." He smiled slightly, sheepishly. She arched an eyebrow at the admission. "I had been without significant pain for two and half months post-op. Now, suddenly..." She knew the rest of that story. The scrip blanks, the beginning of it all becoming unraveled for House.

"Wilson is your best friend, right?"

"Not lately." He looked better, breathing back to normal. She thought he had disclosed a lot. Maybe a break was in order.

"Do you want to try going the rest of the way to the roof? I think if you loop your arm around my shoulder so you don't have to put weight on your right leg…it's only four more steps. Think you can make it?" House nodded resignedly.

"I'm sorry about the pain. But until we get the meds right and the dosages adjusted…"

"Gee, wait, it's coming to me…what would work…let me think…begins with a V…" She was actually delighted to hear the sarcasm slip back into his voice.

"You know that's not an option. We may end up having to put you on a narcotic to supplement. Either a something time released or an infusion pump. That's up to Kwan, with your input. Maybe morphine, maybe something else. But until we see if the Neurontin works, you'll have to be…" They'd made two of the four steps while Catherine was talking. House put his hand on the wall of the stairwell, halting her.

"Yeah. Right," he breathed. A short break for House to gather his strength.

"Two more steps. Well, we could try some non-pharmacological things: relaxation, biofeedback, massage. Any or all of those might help…"

"Been there, done that." They were finally at the top of the flight. House leaned his back heavily against the wall, resisting the urge to slide down and sit on the floor. He wasn't sure he'd be able to get up again.

"This better not be locked or we're in a lot of trouble,." She said. Catherine tried the door. It opened.

"Emergency exit to the roof. It can't be locked. Against fire regs."

"Ah. Ready?" Again he nodded.

The roof was wet, but snow wasn't accumulating on it. The 32 degree temperatures and the heat of the building conspired against the snow, leaving only a wet slush. But the snow kept falling: giant flakes landed and melted on contact with the warmed cement.

House moved painfully to the short wall surrounding the roof. Leaning against it, he peered out over the city. His gaze was so intense, he almost appeared to be memorizing it, Catherine thought. Although the snowfall obscured much of the skyline.

"So why the roof?" She repeated the question asked much earlier, hoping for a slightly less glib answer. House shrugged noncommittally.

"Guess I wanted a last look." He seemed subdued, resigned. She didn't blame him. She found the space highly depressing and gloomy. Maybe that was why he liked it.

"Do you think you might be found guilty?"

"I wouldn't place any bets on my freedom if I were you."

"How do you feel about that?" It was a stupid question, and she knew House would see it that way, but she was curious. What was he thinking? Was he thinking about it at all?

"It doesn't really matter." He was trying to sound cool.

"How can it not matter?"

"OK. So it does matter. I don't really want to go to jail. But it's sorta out of my hands at this point." He turned away from the wall. "I'd rather not spend my time worrying about things I can't change."

"What _can_ you change?"

"Not a goddammed thing. Nothing." She wondered where the sudden fury originated.

House hadn't been out on the rooftop for nearly a year. It had been, at one time, a sanctuary for him. A place to think; a place to be alone; to be away from everyone and everything. During the last awful months before Stacy left him, when everyone had friendly advice for him; everybody wanted to "help" him. It was the only place to which he could escape them—and her.

She had certainly known where to find him that night when he had run out of clues regarding her husband's illness. Stacy's fury at House's invasive questioning of Mark both aroused him and made him sad. "Medical screwing. It's what I do."

"I don't know what's wrong with him," House had confessed to her. He had ready for her anger; but not for her shattered faith.

"It didn't occur to me that you wouldn't be able to figure out what's wrong with him." It had been against his better judgment to draw Stacy into his arms, but he could do nothing else. To hold her, then, to feel her leaned against his chest. Needing him. It was an ecstasy and a pain he had nearly forgotten. The longing he had felt at that moment was exquisite.

"So what do we do?" she had asked.

"We wait."

:"For what?"

"For something to change. One of the great tragedies of life is that something always changes." She had broken away from him and taken something of himself with her.

House returned from the memory. The snow had stopped and he stared out at the skyline "The last time I was out here, Wilson tried his psychobabble on me. Now I guess it's your turn. Take your best shot."

"What did Wilson say to you? I'll try not to duplicate his effort." She deserved that. She had begun sounding like a shrink and House called her on it.

"I had just told Stacy to go back to her husband. Wilson just lost it. Yelled at me about how self-destructive I was being to send Stacy away. That I just loved being miserable; I couldn't bring myself to be happy. You know, the usual."

"Why did you send her away?" House thought for a few moments.

"I couldn't give her what I knew she needed. Her husband could." His reply was curt and dispassionate. A diagnosis.

"And you knew this because…"

"We'd been there before. It dawned on me that we would be right back where it ended in a matter of a very short time. I couldn't…" House stopped talking. He walked to the door, wordlessly and went in.

Catherine was drained. She had been half holding her breath the entire time out on the rooftop as House talked. She wondered if he'd ever talked to anyone about any of this before. He hadn't said that much but even this tiny breakthrough seemed somehow huge. It seemed to keep coming back to Wilson. She needed to get House's permission to interview him. She had a notion that Wilson had done more damage than good in trying to "help." Good intentions or not.

Catherine went back into the stairwell. She suddenly realized how cold she was out there. House was sitting at the top of the stair, his head in his hands. "I don't want to do this," he said, hearing Catherine come back into the alcove.

"I know. But you need to talk about some of this. To me. To somebody. I'm not so concerned about the drugs. Yes, you used the Vicodin to cope with things other than your physical pain. You wouldn't be the first, and it doesn't necessarily make you an addict. Neither do some of the other things you did. Not even stealing the Oxy. Not necessarily." She sat beside him, not wanting to loom over him.

"You had a serious emotional breakdown on Christmas eve that sends klaxon horns howling through every professional nerve in my body. Whether you intended to hurt yourself and failed; or whether you simply no longer cared and just wanted the pain to go away, it amounted to the same thing. You nearly killed yourself. And without thinking twice about it. The call home to your family suggests to me intent." House looked up at her, drained; his eyes emotionless.

"At this point, what does it matter? I'm going to jail. For 10 years. My medical license will be revoked. I won't last a year in jail. I can't." His voice was flat and expressionless. Defeated.

"It matters." She wondered how much of this was rawness left over from his disclosures; how much was the physical pain? How much for effect. With the Ultram dialed down and the Neurontin not yet being administered, he had to be in terrible amount of pain. Yet he hadn't complained.

"Do I have your permission to speak to Wilson? About your friendship? I won't if you don't want me to, but I think it can help me gain some insight."

"Sure. Fine. Great." She knew he didn't mean it, but that he felt somehow powerless to prevent it.

Getting down from the top of the stairs was going to be more difficult than going up—and that was no picnic. But they would take it one small step at a time.


	11. Chapter 11

No Exit

Chapter 11

No Exit

Chapter 11

A/N—I think I was misunderstood when I posted the last chapter. I will not end this either abruptly or unfinished. My thoughts are still to finish in just a couple more chapters---unless there's more to say after Words and Deeds airs on Tuesday. If House is still in rehab at the end, I may continue. But in either case, I won't leave it unfinished. I thank everyone who has been encouraging me to continue with this work, and I'm gratified that it's touched so many people. It's been fun, but draining, to write!

Of the five Brandenburg concerti written by Bach, the third was Catherine's favorite. She had made a practice of leaving the piano unlocked at night before she went home, leaving House an open invitation to use it. The adjustment of his medication regimen had been physically and emotionally challenging for him and she thought having free access to the piano might bring him some comfort.

Of course there was the dizziness, leaving him even more unsteady on his feet than he had become. He was alternately sleepy and restless, always drowsy and never getting needed sleep as the pain woke him nearly hourly at night. House had resisted using biofeedback, but had accepted the manipulations of a masseur borrowed from physio. Kwan had upped the gabapentin as much as was safe, and his "normal" pain level still had not gone below a 5 or 6 on the scale. It was still too way too high. They all knew that House would never be pain free, nor had he been even on the high doses of Vicodin. But Kwan had hopes that with the right combination of the chemical and the non-chemical, they might be able to make the pain level very consistently tolerable, with few peaks and valleys.

House was playing the concerto with technical brilliance. Catherine was on-call and was in her office when she heard him take on the difficult piece. The complicated runs and extravagant trills seemed to emerge effortlessly through the piano's mellow wood. It was when he hesitated for the third time, hitting sour notes on each attempt, that she became concerned.

House's preliminary hearing was scheduled for the next morning. It was half past two and she was hoping he'd get some rest during the night. But if not that, at least some respite from the torture they were putting him through.

"Hi." House nodded, his eyes closed. "You OK?" Right question, poorly phrased. "Is it the pain or the dizziness?"

"Dizziness." Catherine automatically put a steadying hand under his elbow, thinking he would try to stand. House raised a hand, motioning her away. Catherine reckoned that this had to be a particularly bad spell. If they couldn't get the dizziness under control, this was not going to work for him. He had to be functional. And severe, albeit intermittent, dizziness was a serious impediment to functionality.

A few moments passed and House cautiously stood, pushing back the piano bench, testing. It had been four days since going up on the rooftop, and House hadn't spoken much since then. A lot of that had to do with his not feeling well under the new meds, she knew. But he seemed to have withdrawn back into himself.

House did not trust easily. He had very good reason not to, given the betrayals in his life. And Catherine suspected that they went further back than the infarction and what she had read about Stacy in his file. He had needed to trust Catherine, coming back off the rooftop, freezing, in anguish, and unable to descend the staircase on his own.

To House, dignity was everything. There was nothing particularly dignified in maneuvering down a stairway one torturous step at a time, draped over a woman half his size. "Thank you," he had said to her, before looking away, embarrassed and humiliated. Catherine wondered, after all he had disclosed to her, the condition he had been in when he first came under her care and what he had gone through the first week, why now? Why this? And she came to the conclusion that it was about trust and power: giving in to the former and relinquishing the latter.

"You need to get that hearing postponed, Dr. House. There's no way…You'll keel over before…"

"Yeah. Great. That will look just wonderful. Defendant requested postponement of hearing because of difficulties in rehab. That'll get me an acquittal right there. No. I'll be fine."

"The problem is with your meds, not you. You're not ready." The dizziness seemed to have passed and House seemed more steady.

"I'll be fine." He began to walk back towards his room.

"Your defense all worked out?" House nodded.

"I think it depends on the judge." House was concentrating clearing his head as he spoke. "What her take is on my alleged action, in light of the fact that my _needed_ medication was abruptly withdrawn. That my physicians were pressured by the investigating…by a cop with a vendetta…" He was struggling for words through the dizziness, but he seemed clear-headed.

"The DEA laws are pretty brutal." House shrugged.

"What will be will be. I'm tired of fighting. I'm tired of having to justify every…" He stopped, closing his eyes briefly, reflecting. They had reached his room.

"I talked to Dr. Wilson."

"He got his testimony all worked out? Ready to screw me on the stand?"

"He's not testifying. He told me, anyway."

"Doesn't matter. They have his statement…and his deal. They'll subpoena him and he'll have to testify. His sentiment is a little 'after the barn door's open,' if you ask me."

"He wanted you to understand why he felt he had…"

"Spare me. Yeah. I know. He went to Tritter to 'save me' from myself. Save me from going to jail."

"He said he thought Dr. Chase was about to go to the DA..."

"You mean he hadn't already?" This was accomplishing nothing but to get House increasingly agitated. Catherine sighed.

"Dr. Wilson should never have been prescribing for you. He has a personal relationship with you and never…"

"He knew that I…" House stopped as Catherine sat in one of the bedside chairs. He eased himself onto the edge of the bed, manually lifting his right leg up. Catherine observed him. He had never asked for more meds or more frequent dosages. He followed the protocol without questioning it, patiently. And she knew House wasn't a patient man.

Catherine had met with Wilson earlier in the day. She had wanted to figure out a little bit of their seemingly complex relationship: close friends, patient/doctor, confidants. She doubted it was sexual. House struck her as completely heterosexual. Wilson, she hadn't had quite a handle on…and with three failed marriages. But it was clear that their relationship was completely platonic: a close, close friendship; family, even.

Wilson, she knew, was an oncologist. He dealt on a daily basis with intractable, chronic pain. It was part of the job description. And alleviating that pain was a large part of Wilson's job. Maybe that was why he felt qualified to deal with House's pain issues.

"So why _are_ you Dr. House's prescribing MD?"

"It's convenient for him."

"That's it?"

"He needs the meds." He had sounded a bit defensive.

"Of that, there's no doubt. None." Wilson sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.

"House doesn't trust doctors. He hasn't for a long time. Not since…"

"The infarction fiasco."

"Right. He quit physio after the first year and a half. Shortly thereafter, his significant other moved out. He practically drove her away. House completely withdrew. Basically stayed in his apartment for six months. Never kept doctors appointments; shopped; went for haircuts. He became a hermit. He needed the meds. Without someone writing him scrips, he would have simply died. It would have simply been too much for him."

"Your prediction nearly came true on Christmas Eve. It had become too much for him without the meds. You knew that, but you convinced Dr. Cuddy to deny him needed medication."

"I had no choice, Dr. Harrington. The DA had put a deal on the table…I went to them because I was scared for House. I saw a disaster coming. He didn't; he never does. House can figure out everyone and everything…except himself. He struck a subordinate; a young doctor who not only is an opportunist, but had betrayed House before. When it had happened the first time, I thought House would have fired him. But he defended him as simply wanting to protect his job. He understood Dr. Chase's motivation and found it within himself to accept it. It's more than I would have done, but…" Harrington detected a note of deep admiration in Wilson's voice.

"Anyway, I believed that Chase would go to the police and tell them something damaging to House. I have no idea what—but House…House sometimes colors outside the lines. We all do that…break strict medical rules for the greater ethical 'right.' House does it all the time. So I had no idea what Chase may have told Tritter…"

"…the detective."

"Yes. The investigating officer for the case. I thought it would be a lesser evil if I could mitigate the damage. I got the DA to offer a deal—rehab instead of jail time. I thought that House would go for it."

"How could you think that? I've known him for two weeks and I know he would never agree to taking such a deal. Especially if he thought he was right and would be acquitted." Wilson sighed. Catherine paused. "Dr. House said that you dismissed him when he came to you about the returning pain this past autumn. That he asked you for Vicodin, but you insisted that the Ketamine was still working and blamed his pain on creeping middle age."

"I did. And I was wrong. Clearly, in retrospect, the pain was returning. But at the time…"

"That's when he stole your prescription pad, you know. He felt no one was listening. His case was crashing in on him…"

"The Addison's case. Yes, I know. I was…One day I knew that House's arrogance would get him into trouble. I was only trying to help him see…"

"Do you know, Dr. Wilson, how much of House's so-called arrogance is for show? My guess is, after getting to know him, that House has more humility…real humility than any three doctors I've ever know in a major institution? Sure, he has absolute confidence in his skill as a doctor, but he questions himself all the time…" A lot of that had been pure speculation, but between reading House's own writings, and having come to know him…and her discussions with Lisa Cuddy, Harrington was pretty sure she'd hit the mark.

"He tell you that?" Wilson had been sure that Harrington was coming down with Stockholm syndrome.

"Look, Dr. Wilson, I'm not here to accuse you of anything. Certainly Dr. House is self-destructive enough on his own. He's hurting a lot inside, and I think you know that. You want to help, and that's good. I understand very easily how Dr. House could shut himself up; be unwilling to see doctors and rely on someone he trusts…you. And you are a good friend to want to be there for him. But you aren't a psychologist or psychiatrist. I think one thing I will ask of you if you visit him during his time here, especially…but for all time…is to not try to psychoanalyze him. He resents it and it deeply hurts him. He may not articulate it; he may make jokes about it, become sarcastic…but it hurts. Believe me.

"We're going to get him on a reasonable and tolerable pain management protocol. It's likely to end up being Gabapentin; an intrathetcal metered morphine pump. It's not going to deal with the pain completely. The best I've seen with this combination is a pain level between a 3 and a 4. His pain will never be less than that. On his best days. He'll probably have occasional breakthrough pain; and for that we'll probably send him home with an emergency kit. He told me that he had one last spring. I assume it was something that he self-prescribed. I intend be his prescribing physician, as a matter of convenience. If he asks you to prescribe for him, send him to me. That's why I'm prescribing for him, and not his pain management specialist. I'm here; Kwan is in New York. I'm sorry to be so long winded. Dr. Wilson. Be his friend. He needs that from you more than he needs you to be his doctor or his psychoanalyst."

"Can I see him?"

"He's still unwilling to see you. Give him a little time."

"You know…I couldn't stay that night...Christmas eve. I had been worried about him after I he left the office. The look on his face…I'd called him three times and when he didn't answer…I thought… I saw him…lying there… But then I saw the empty oxy bottle and the whiskey. I couldn't deal with it anymore. I felt terrible leaving him there but I…"

"You called Dr. Cuddy. I think that was the best thing you could have done under the circumstances."

"He won't see it that way."

"He will. Give him some time. Right now, he's having a hard time adjusting to the meds and we're not anywhere close to an acceptable pain level for him. He needs to concentrate on that. Give it time."

Catherine watched as House tried with no success to find a comfortable position in his bed. He was clearly exhausted, defeated, resigned, hurting. She was worried about the preliminary hearing…probably more than he was.

"Is the dizziness better? Should I get you anything for it?"

"Won't it screw up our readings? The…" House had slipped off to sleep.

Harrington removed his shoes, and pulling the blanket up over him, bid him a peaceful rest.


	12. Chapter 12

No Exit

Chapter 12

Wilson had caught Cuddy's eye as she stood with Harrington and another doctor at House's bedside.

"Excuse me Catherine, Dr. Kwan." Cuddy reluctantly left the room and went approached Wilson.

"What the Hell happened? Why wasn't House in court? His lawyer filed for an postponement?" His voice was tinged with a combination of anger, worry and panic. "What did he do?"

Cuddy was momentarily confused by the question. "What did…?" She sighed. "Wilson, if I'd known you were going to be there, I would have called and let you know. I'm sorry. We…" As Cuddy spoke, she occasionally looked over her shoulder back toward the room.

"Is he alright?"

"Yes. He's having a bad reaction to the neurontin. They maxed out his dosage yesterday…"

"Harrington told me that."

"You talked to Harrington?" She was slightly surprised, but that meant that House had agreed to it. That was good, she thought. "He'd been having mild dizziness since he's been on it; last night it got much worse; this morning the unit nurse couldn't rouse him." Wilson listened silently, concern etching his face. "Harrington thought to call me. She knew about the hearing and knew I could get in touch with House's lawyer. She had suggested a postponement to House last night. He refused.

"He's awake, but barely. Kwan's not ecstatic, but they have to cut back on the neurontin. Did the judge grant the postponement? I haven't heard."

"Yes. It's been rescheduled for next week. Can I see him?"

"He's extremely lethargic and not very alert. But…"

"I really want to see him, Cuddy. Look I know he doesn't want to see me now, but if he's that out of it, he won't know I'm around anyway."

"It's really up to Dr. Harrington and Dr. Kwan." Wilson, assuming what their answer would be, walked away from Cuddy, parking himself on a bench nearby.

By noon, House was considerably less sluggish and the dizziness had more or less abated. The doctors determined that they had no option but to cut back the Gabapentin, hopefully only a little. Back to where they had been with it two days ago: a dosage closer to what he'd been on two days earlier—and begin to add an opoid to the mix. Lowering House's dosage was not going to be pleasant for him, as the pain level wasn't great, even at the maximum dosage. And the sooner they could begin a narcotic the better.

Cuddy had been sitting with him most of the morning after the initial crisis was over. He opened his eyes languidly and looked at her, bewildered. "Hell of a way to get out of going to court."

"What happened?" House was slightly confused at Cuddy's worried expression.

"You went down a the rabbit hole for awhile. No one could rouse you. You missed your court appearance." Her voice was gentle. House's eyes widened in panic. "It's fine," she assured him, "It's been postponed till next week." From the overt gentleness in Cuddy's voice, House wondered just how bad off he was. He tried filtering through the list of gabapentin's adverse effects. His brain was simply to foggy for the exercise.

House tried sitting up. It was not such a great idea. Cuddy raised the head of the bed for him. "Better?" House nodded. He seemed to be looking better by the minute. He nodded, closing his eyes, as he tried clearing his head.

"Why am I so dopey?" He hadn't remembered doing anything…just being tired. And dizzy. His mouth felt like it was filled with cotton balls.

"Too much Gabapentin. They slightly OD'd you."

"OK. Now this time it wasn't my fault." She smiled at the comeback.

"Kwan said they're going to hook you up to a morphine pump. They're going to try to schedule the preliminary testing for as soon as you're capable. Between that and the gabapentin…" House nodded sleepily.

"Morphine. Cool. Party's at my house." She knew House was making light of the situation, but an intrathecal infusion pump was a last resort solution. "Spinal morphine. Who'd've thought of that one?" He sounded slightly bitter. And it hurt. He'd asked her for just that—a spinal morphine injection--a year before; she gave him saline, instead. He was right to be upset with her.

"House…Wilson's been sitting out there all morning, looking like an abandoned cocker spaniel. He's been asking to see you all morning. Look, House, He only did…"

"Yeah. What he thought was right. It's all anyone ever does. You, him, Tritter, my lawyer… Motives pure as the driven snow." His glare slightly receded. "Fine. I'll see him."

Cuddy left the room to get Wilson as House steeled himself for the visit. He'd thought a lot about his relationship with Wilson, over the past two weeks, fueled both by boredom and his sessions with Catherine.

"So how ya doin?"

"Feel like I'm floating on a cloud. What could be better. Big fluffy one, too. Leg hurts like a bitch, but…"

"House. Look. I know you're pissed off at me. But what I did..."

"If you're looking for absolution, I don't want to hear it. I'm certainly in no condition to grant it. You did what you thought you had to. The end." House blew out a breath.

"I'm not here for anything but to be your friend." House laughed disdainfully.

"Right. Now you want to be my friend. You put me through Hell these last months…" House's indignation was colored by his own actions towards his friend. "…Look, I'm sorry about the scrips and involving you in the criminal case. I owe you that. But …"

"Everything I've done, I've done _out_ of friendship. To protect you. Look, I didn't come here to argue with you. I was worried when you didn't appear in court this morning."

"What? You didn't get a chance to testify against me? Cover your ass?"

"I decided not to testify against you. I have the contempt charge sitting on my desk if you need proof."

"Yeah? What made you decide that? Bet your buddy Tritter liked that a lot. Guess you're not engaged anymore, huh?"

"The Stills diagnosis," Wilson inserted before House's next barb. House arched a questioning eyebrow. Had that really only been two weeks ago? Wilson took a breath. He knew what he needed to say. Had been rehearsing it for the two hours sitting on the bench worrying. He cleared his throat before going on.

"There was a time, House, when I was in awe of you. Your leaps of intuition, which half the time I couldn't even follow seemed like medical magic to me. I'd known the science had to be there, but you had this ability to see the big picture and the infinitesimal picture both at the same time. Merge them together and form a diagnosis. It was eerie as it was incredible to observe you make those associative leaps from nowhwere. I watched you wield your magic and recognized true genius.

"But it wasn't only that. You were battered and bruised, and I watched you withdraw more and more into yourself. Your words always protested that you didn't give a shit about patients. You forged yourself into a classic misanthrope. People made you miserable and you couldn't even stand to even speak to them, much less do more than coldly analyze their symptoms on your white board.

"Over the last year or so, as I saw you become more and more self-destructive, I had forgotten something I had known about you, having been persuaded by your own rhetoric. My anger at what I saw you doing to yourself made me forget…

"It's not the riddles to you. It's not the puzzle. It's not that you don't give a crap. Because you do. Maybe too much. And patients make you miserable because when you interact with them, you feel too much for them; empathize with them as only someone who knows pain as well as you do can..." Wilson could feel himself beginning to try and analyze House, and he hadn't intended that. Harrington had warned him and she was right.

"That diagnosis? You were sick; out of your mind with pain and withdrawal effects; depressed and under intense pressure. Yet you figured it out. Both Cuddy and I had missed it. Both of us. It's not lucky guesses; it's not some sort of medical voo-doo. It's genius. And I guess I had forgotten that. And in that moment of clarity, I decided that I couldn't be the one to deprive the world of you. The guilt would be too much. I couldn't testify against you. Send you to jail, when it was clear you weren't going to take the deal. "

House watched Wilson, stunned. How long had it taken him to put that speech together. A morning sitting in the hallway of a rehab center, probably. "But it wasn't Stills."

"Yeah, but you figured that out too. High as a kite on Oxy." Wilson shook his head in disbelief at the accomplishment. "Patient's mom told me what you said to her; how you got her to do the hormone therapy on the kid."

"Someone has a big mouth for a little person."

"Someone once told me that it's not what you say, it's what you do that matters. Every day, it seems, you risk your career…not to solve a puzzle; not to 'be right,' to arrogantly show off that you're the smartest kid in the class… But to 'do right' to do what's best for the patient—not because it's expedient, or will sit well with your malpractice insurance company, or cover your ass, or the board's or Cuddy's…"

"Yeah, but what an ass!"

"You do it because it's right."

"Morphine." House laughed, deflecting. "They're fucking putting me on morphine. Beats your Vicodin," House sniffed smugly. "I am sorry about the scrips. I had no right to pull you into this mess." House turned serious, realizing that nothing had really changed. Not for him. He and Wilson would be alright. They always were. That was a given. But nothing else.

"I better let you get some rest."

"Thanks." Cuddy re-entered the room as Wilson left.

"NEXT!"

"You and Wilson kiss and make up?" House nodded, but his thoughts were elsewhere. "You seem to be doing better than you were this morning." Another nod. "OK. I'm going to let you get some rest."

"Thanks, Cuddy."


	13. Chapter 13

No Exit

Chapter the last

House watched his own blood pour from his side, creating a small pool. He felt no pain, only confusion. The pain in his leg had vanished; he felt none coming from the wound in his abdomen. He looked up to see the shooter once again taking aim, this time at his head. And then…nothing…

"…Dr House?..." Someone was shaking him. "…Dr. House?" He was bathed in a cold sweat. House opened his eyes, elated, but bewildered to not see the shooter; to not be covered in blood.

House blinked several times clearing his head and focusing in on Catherine's face. "I'm…I must've been dreaming. I…" House had been resting, going in and out of sleep all afternoon. The neurosurgeon had implanted the small infusion pump and catheter under mild sedation after Kwan had ascertained a tolerable level of pain relief from the combination of the gabapentin and morphine. Now they just waited, hoping that the pain levels would settle back permanently and Dr. House could get on with his life.

"That must've been some dream. You're still shaking." House looked down at his hands. They were trembling. He pulled the blanket up and over his arms, hiding them. "Care to share with the class."

"Not really. Although I suppose you're going to hound me until I say something. So, just so you'll waste less of my time…I've had this dream before. Just not for awhile. The ketamine treatment I went through last summer has vivid dreaming as a side effect. Just after the treatment they were bad...frequent The intensity and the frequency of the dreams has decreased over time, but they haven't completely abated."

"So you think this was still residual ketamine effect? Seems pretty distant…"

"Sucks, huh? Pain's back, but the dreams remain the same."

Catherine took a deep breath. "What was the dream?"

"Just some déjà vu of the shooting." Catherine raised an eyebrow. Ketamine or no, it would not be unusual for this visual to recur during sleep. Post traumatic stress. Especially since, as far as she could tell, he hadn't dealt with that day at all.

"Are you feeling up to sitting in my office? No pain from the incision? I don't want to do your session in here."

"Is that what this is? Not just a friendly visit to the patient?" She smiled.

"If you want this to simply be a friendly chat, that's fine. Call it what you want."

"I was being sarcastic."

"So was I. This is what it is, Dr. House. You may not think this is getting anywhere. I don't agree with you. Why don't you get yourself together and stop by my office in 15 minutes." House nodded reluctantly.

The shooting. Could he even say for sure what happened? Guy comes in points a weapon and blam! Shot to the stomach…

House jumped, startled at a sound he heard in the distance, out in the hall. Was that a tray being dropped or the reverberations of his own memory? He couldn't say that for sure either. After the second shot he remembered nothing, not even asking for the Ketamine treatment. Just echoes of things. Moments, dreams, the sounds of voices, nothing solid enough to retain for more than a microsecond or two. Until he woke that day post-op and the pain was gone from his leg. He had not realized until everyone had left his bedside that that morning that tears were streaming down his face. No one had mentioned it, although certainly they would have noticed. He had not cried. Not once since that other night, when the pain was so bad he had asked to be put in a chemically-induced coma. He had cried with Stacy that night, arguing about options and amputations. He had gone to sleep believing he had won that argument only to wake up a day later to find half his thigh muscles excised and his life in ruins.

In front of him lay a dismal future, more dismal than the one Stacy had left him with all those years ago. This time, it was his own stupidity, he reckoned, that placed him in this place. Ahead lay the purgatory of a drug trial; and beyond that the hell of prison. And not far beyond that, he knew, the end of his own life.

House sighed and knocked on Catherine's door. She noted his reflectiveness wondering if this were a good or bad sign. House sat, looking down at his hands, which had, by now, stopped shaking. "Do you want to talk about your dream?"

House surprised even himself, replying, "Yes. I think I need to do that."

End.


End file.
